


Phone a Friend

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Cure for backache, M/M, Newcastle hospitality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Look, James, I know it’s your weekend off, and you can say no..."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phone a Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lamardeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/gifts).



> For Lamardeuse, one of my favourite authors in this fandom, as a birthday gift and to say thanks for all the wonderful stories she's given to us all.

James is practising fingering on his guitar on Saturday afternoon when his mobile rings. 

The name that flashes up on the screen is Lewis. But Lewis is in Newcastle for an extended long weekend, helping an elderly relative to empty out her flat and move into a sheltered housing complex. Come to think of it, too, this is his personal phone, not the work one.

“Sir? You didn’t sit on your phone again and accidentally ring me?”

“Oi,” Lewis practically growls. “That happened _once_. An’ it wasn’t you I phoned.”

“No. Now, just who did you phone?” James grins as he pretends to sound forgetful. “Remind me, will you?”

“Oh, shut up, you. Bad enough Innocent won’t let me forget it.” Lewis’s tone changes. “Look, James, I know it’s your weekend off, and you can say no, but—”

“What do you need?” There’s no question, as far as James is concerned: whatever Lewis needs, James will provide it.

There’s a loud sigh. “I turned around to put some books into one of the boxes, an’ her bloody cat chose to run under me feet. Lost me grip on the books an’ sprained me wrist. Just spent the last few hours in Casualty.”

Ah. And Lewis drove up there, and he’s not going to be able to drive back — in fact, he’s unlikely to be able to drive anywhere for at least a couple of weeks. “Do you need me to come and get you?”

“I hate to ask.” Lewis sounds genuinely apologetic. “I mean, I could just get the train, but there’s the car.” He took his official vehicle — with permission, of course — because his own car is in for repairs and wasn’t going to be ready in time.

“Give me a few minutes to check train times, sir, and I’ll phone you back.”

* * *

Almost five hours and one change later, the train is finally pulling into Newcastle Central at almost ten o’clock. He would have waited until tomorrow, but Sunday trains are terrible, and of course bank holiday service is even worse. Besides, Lewis only travelled up to Newcastle himself yesterday morning. If he sprained his wrist this morning, there’ll be a lot of packing left to do.

Rucksack thrown over one shoulder, he steps down from the carriage and looks around for exit signs — then hears his name called. Lewis, in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair less tidy than usual and one arm in a narrow sling, is standing on the platform.

“Sir! You didn’t need to meet me.”

“Course I did. Don’t know where you’re going, do you?” Lewis leads the way out of the station, weaving though other commuters until they’re at the taxi rank. He gives the driver the address and slides into the back seat next to James. “Can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, man. I would’ve phoned Tim, Lyn’s partner, but — well, with the baby due any time now...”

“Of course you couldn’t.” James hesitates, then decides just to say it — but deliberately assumes a faintly mocking tone. “I’d have been offended if you’d asked anyone else.”

Lewis shoots him an assessing look, and James knows he’s been rumbled. But all his boss says is, “Thanks, man.”

* * *

At Lewis’s aunt’s home, which is a barely-updated two-bedroomed flat in one of Newcastle’s 1970s high-rises, the door is opened by a tiny white-haired woman of around eighty. “Come in, come in! You’re wee Robbie’s friend, is that right, hinny?”

 _Wee Robbie?_ James glances at his boss, barely smothering a grin. Lewis gives him a quelling frown and leads the way inside. “James, this is my aunt, Eileen Swain — Eileen, this is James Hathaway.”

Mrs Swain leads the way through the flat — which is full of boxes, suitcases and years of accumulated belongings waiting to be packed and taken away — into a tiny kitchen, where something smells absolutely delicious. Considering James’s only sustenance over the past five hours was a half-stale sandwich, his stomach rumbles. Loudly.

“Ah, there’s a young man who likes his food! Just like our Robbie when he was a wee lad.” Mrs Swain smiles with what’s obviously fond memory. “Sit yerself down, lad. And, Robbie, you’ll not say no to more, will you?”

“Your beef stew? Not a chance!”

As James sits, he takes notice of a ball of grey fur curled up in an old-fashioned carver chair on the other side of the kitchen. Lewis’s nemesis, he assumes, and the surreptitious glare Lewis gives the cat confirms it.

Steaming bowls soon appear in front of both of them, and Mrs Swain — “Eileen to you, lad,” she insists very quickly after James addresses her formally — apologises to James that she only has a sofa to offer him. “Though you’re a longshanks, aren’t you? You’d be bent in half sleeping on that!” She frowns, looking unhappy.

Quickly, Lewis interjects. “It’s all right, Eileen. I—”

“No, you can’t take the couch either, Robbie, not with your wrist. James can have my bed.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” James insists, horrified. “I always intended to find a B&B.”

“You will not,” Lewis insists. “That’s not Newcastle hospitality, and besides, you’re only here because of me. You can have the other half of my bed, all right?” The steady look from Lewis that accompanies his statement tells James clearly not to argue. It doesn’t take a detective to realise that Lewis’s aunt would be offended if James did stay elsewhere.

* * *

In the morning, James wakes to find himself alone in the bed. He’d fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow last night, too. He feels like banging his head against the wall; a night in bed with Lewis, even if it wasn’t the way he’d like it to be, and he _sleeps_ through all of it? Not even five minutes of pillow talk?

“Ah, you’re awake.” Lewis sounds too bloody amused for eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. “Cuppa for you, and Eileen says breakfast will be ready in ten minutes, so you’d best get your skates on.” His boss is already dressed, in similar clothing to yesterday, and his sling’s in place. So much for James’s assumption that Lewis would need his help with all that sort of thing.

He sits up in the bed, “Thank you, sir. I’ll be out in five minutes.”

Lewis sits on the side of the bed, next to him — close enough to touch. “Ah, you’re all right. Eileen was that grateful to you, she won’t mind if you take ten.” He grins wickedly, then adds, “She’ll think it’s a bit weird if me mate’s calling me sir. Make it Robbie, okay?”

“Robbie.” James smiles, feeling warm inside. “Does this mean you won’t be giving me orders all day?”

“What’d be the point of that?” Lewis — no, Robbie — stands, turning to go. “You never pay any attention when I do that normally.”

“Oi!” James retorts, but he’s speaking to a rapidly-closing door.

* * *

He was right in his assumption that Lewis was behind on the packing. Eileen is supposed to be out of this flat by Tuesday morning, when a niece is coming to drive her to her new flat in the sheltered housing complex. The niece — from the other side of the family, no relative of Robbie’s, as he explains to James — is away this weekend and so couldn’t help with the packing. And Lewis and James needs to be on the road by early afternoon on Monday; they’re on call from Monday night.

Eileen’s belongings are being sorted into three piles: one to go with her, another to be given to family members, and a third to go to a charity shop. Some stuff’s being thrown out along the way as well. The furniture — old-fashioned and heavy — is being taken by a removal company on Tuesday, James learns to his relief. Eileen stands by as James removes ornaments, crockery and other personal belongs from cupboards and surfaces, and gives him instructions as to the disposition of each. Robbie is allowed only to handle light items, and to make phone calls as needed. 

Lewis’s aunt is a hard taskmaster, James decides after only about an hour; Innocent could take lessons from her. She stands over him, clucks when he’s a bit too slow for her preference, and tuts if she thinks he’s not handling a precious possession carefully enough — even when it’s for the charity pile. “Canny that you’re a tall lad,” she tells him at one point. “Didn’t know how I was going to get things oot o’ the attic.”

Robbie pats his shoulder. “Canny, that.” He winks at James. 

“Indeed,” James says dryly.

* * *

Eileen does leave her supervisor’s post to prepare meals, and there’s no denying that she’s an excellent cook. Home-made soup with crusty bread for lunch — it’s a miserably cold early May holiday weekend — and shepherd’s pie for dinner, followed by sponge pudding. “I’ll be puttin’ on weight,” Robbie protests, without too much force, patting his stomach after dinner.

“Clearly, you need to work it off through some more lifting and carrying,” James suggests. 

“Don’t know about that.” Robbie pats his wrist, looking amused. “Wouldn’t want to risk any more damage.”

He does help, though, and by the time Eileen goes to bed there’s only the kitchen left to empty, which they’ll easily accomplish in the morning.

James straightens, stretching out his aching back with a groan. Immediately, Robbie’s next to him, a hand pressed against his spine. “You all right?”

He winces. “Back hurts a bit.”

“And, knowing you, _a bit_ means it hurts like hell.” Robbie shakes his head. “I’m sorry, lad. I really didn’t get you up here to half-kill you with heavy labouring.”

He turns to smile at his boss, though it turns into a grimace as pain strikes him again. “I don’t mind, really. I offered, remember? Couldn’t have left you to cope on your own.”

Robbie rubs his hand up and down James’s back. “You’re a good mate, really. Dunno what I’d do without you.” Before James can answer, he adds, “Right. Into the bedroom with you. Clothes off an’ lie on your front on the bed.”

James blinks, but habit makes him obey. He’s lying — almost naked; he couldn’t imagine that Lewis would have intended him to take off his underwear — on the bed five minutes later when his boss enters the room.

“Where does it hurt most?”

“Lower back, and my shoulders,” he says, and reaches behind with a hand to show Lewis, but that hurts too.

“Don’t move, soft lad.” There’s rustling, and then the bed gives way as Lewis joins him — and straddles James’s thighs. Skin against skin — bloody hell. He realises then what the strange sound was: Lewis has removed his jeans. To avoid chafing, presumably. “Right, this’ll be cold.” Some kind of cream — liniment, judging by the smell — lands in the small of his back, and then Lewis starts to rub and stroke one-handed.

“Oh, that’s good.” He can’t help the groan that escapes him. It _is_ good — the sensation of Lewis’s hand, as well as the deep heat of the cream. And the slow glide of Lewis’s bare thighs against his own as his boss stretches to apply the cream... Christ.

“Used to do this for the lads on the rugby team,” Lewis explains. “An’ Val when she was pregnant and her back ached.”

“Lucky woman,” he murmurs, then curses himself silently. What an idiotic thing to say.

“Think I was the lucky one,” Lewis says, voice soft. His hand continues working up and down James’s back and across his shoulders, one by one.

“This is... wonderful,” James manages after a bit; he had to struggle to find his voice. “Thank you, s— Robbie.”

“You’re all right, lad. Would be better if I had the use of both hands, but still.” The pressure of Lewis’s hand decreases, his strokes lighter and longer now. “Can’t have you so sore you can’t drive tomorrow.”

“A hot shower in the morning and I’ll be fine,” he promises.

“Good.” The hand moves across to one side, sliding up and down, and then over James’s shoulder and down his arm. Lewis isn’t working out knots any more; he’s _stroking_ James. And it feels... bloody good. 

Too good. There’s absolutely no way James is going to be able to turn over any time in the near future.

Lewis’s hips tilt closer to James’s arse as he starts to rub the back of James’s neck... and it’s immediately obvious that James isn’t the only one affected. And, Christ, he _wants._ “Robbie...” The name’s barely more than a moan, and instantly he wants to dig a hole underneath the bed to hide in.

“James.” And that’s a tone he’s never heard before from Robbie: tender, affectionate... and almost sensual. Robbie’s lips are very close to his ear, so close he can feel the man’s breath. “What do you want?”

What does he want? What if he’s got this wrong, and he says something that disgusts Robbie? “I... I don’t know what you...”

“Daft sod.” The words sound like an endearment, and lips brush the side of his neck. “What do you want?”

James raises himself up slightly so that he can turn to look at Robbie — and what he sees tells him that he’s not wrong. He stretches those last couple of inches until their lips meet, and the kiss is all he ever imagined it could be, and more.

* * *

Lying in bed later, with his head on Robbie’s shoulder, he dares to ask, “Why me?”

“Why not you?” Robbie sounds amused — again. Git. He’s going to have to find a way to get revenge on his boss for this.

He shrugs slightly. “Try the fact that you like women. And — at least until recently — you were on the verge of something with Laura Hobson.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not any more, am I?” Robbie leans across to kiss him again. “That was all over around the time you saw her with Franco. Not because she had dinner with another bloke, as such, but I s’pose it helped us both to see that we weren’t right for each other. As for liking women, never said I didn’t like blokes, did I?”

“And you do?”

“Never enough before to do anything about it,” Robbie admits. “An’ anyway, I’m your boss. Had to avoid takin’ advantage.” His uninjured hand strokes up James’s arm. “That one went out the window tonight, didn’t it? We’ll work something out, though.”

“As long as it doesn’t mean not doing this.” James slides closer to Robbie, and is immediately encouraged by Robbie’s arm tightening around him, and his hand sliding down to squeeze James’s arse. He dares to slide his thigh over Robbie’s, and _that_ earns him a deep, intense kiss.

“Breakfast at the same time in the morning?” he asks, breaking the kiss.

“Earlier,” Robbie informs him. “We had a lie-in today because it was Sunday.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” James recommends, moving his leg between Robbie’s and rocking against his partner, and feeling an immediate response.

“Best idea you’ve had all day, lad.” Robbie kisses him again, open-mouthed and demanding, and if this is Newcastle hospitality James never wants to go back down south again.

* * *


End file.
